The ground whereon he stands
by papierherz
Summary: Coming to terms with the death of a loved one is troublesome, even for the 3000 year old King of Mississippi.  Events up to episode 3x11


_Black is the colour of my true love's hair.  
His face so soft and wonderous fair  
The purest eyes and the strongest hands  
I love the ground on where he stands _

_Oh, I love my lover, and well he knows  
Yes, I love the ground on where he goes  
And still I hope that the time will come  
When he and I will be as one _

* * *

Finally Russell Edgington was left undisturbed in the museum. He looked at the large oil painting named "Mountain of the Holy Cross". It depicted a mountain of the Colorado Rocky Mountains that had a distinctive cross-shaped snowfield on the northeast face that persisted in its gullies long after the surrounding snow had melted. He had been there with Talbot a long time ago when the Western frontier of the USA was still being pushed. They had relished the beauty of the mountain and its surroundings and heard of its mystical qualities. In the 19th and early 20th century it had become a place of pilgrimage because of its reputed healing powers. Maybe that was one of the reasons Russell longed to see it now. Even the light flooded canvas of Thomas Moran, that had become quite popular in its time, seemed to hold the promise of remedy. Another reason was that it had been one of Talbot's favourite works of art. He had often expressed his admiration for it. Russell assumed, his fascination was in part due to the Christian imagery in the painting. Those things had always attracted Talbot, even if he did not openly admit it. Even though the Byzantine prince had gotten so old, he had to some extent maintained the morals and piety of his period.

Russell shut his eyes and thought of a poem Talbot had once read to him. He almost heard the tones of his beautifully rounded voice telling him of the poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, who had tragically lost his wife when her dress caught fire from the fireplace and who himself was badly disfigured when he tried to put it out. Many years later he had been inspired to write a poem when he saw the picture of the mountain in a book. To Russell it was poignant now in every possible sense:  
_  
In the long, sleepless watches of the night, / A gentle face-the face of one long dead- / Looks at me from the wall, where round its head / The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light. / Here in this room she died, and soul more white / Never through martyrdom of fire was led / To its repose; nor can in books be read / The legend of a life more benedight. / There is a mountain in the distant West/ That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines / Displays a cross of snow upon its side. / Such is the cross I wear upon my breast / These eighteen years, through all the / changing scenes / And seasons, changeless since the day she died._

He never thought it would happen to him. His mind struggled to accept Talbot's true death and the suffering it inflicted on him. The urn he held in his arms gave him the illusion that he was still in the world. He couldn't bring himself to leave it behind. His memories were fresh. They didn't feel at all like impressions of moments bygone. They were present in his mind: a loosened curl of black hair on Talbot's temple, that returns whenever he pulls it back. His hands carefully straightening out his husband's shirt collar, adjusting the tie, smoothing out the wrinkles of his shirt. The pleased look in his eye. Fingers gently brushing his hair back. The sensation of the soft press of his lips on the forehead. Russell yearned to breathe kisses on the back of his lover's hand, touch the nape of his neck, caress his knee and enjoy his quiet moan of pleasure. He should have been there to receive all of his endearments and affections, but he was not. He had vanished. Simple as that.

Russell had always known where to find him in this world, but now couldn't sense him anymore. This numbness inside of him made him almost feel excited. His emotions were aroused to the utmost and strangely pitched. A mental state foreboding the amount of despair that was yet to come. Talbot had been the closest thing to Russell's heart for centuries. His love for him had infused momentum in his life, it had set his world into motion. Losing him had quite literally left him with a deadweight. His heart stood still as if it hadn't died before. He had seen it with other vampires, who had to suffered the loss of a progeny. It would bring about a kind of mental and emotional distress from which he would not lightly recover. Since his relationship with Talbot had been a long-lasting and intimate one, it would probably torment him for the rest of his life. In an instant he had relinquished everything that directly related to Talbot. Including their home, his favorite things and clothing. His fragrance lingered on them, a subtle scent of flowery, woody and citrus notes. How should he bear it if the wearer was nowhere to be found? He hoped this would at least give him a little time ahead of his grief.

The only thing Russell allowed himself to keep was a crystal jar carrying his remains, as soothing as it was devastating to his mind. In the midst of the horror of his biggest fear come true, he had managed to prepare it as an urn for his beloved. Crouched down on his knees and sinking his shaky hands into the bloody viscera on the ground, he got an imprint of the utter violence that had ended Talbot's immortal life. Once he had given it to the young Greek, overflowing with sadness to see and feel him die, for he knew he had loved his human life, the sun on his skin and the taste of mint and oranges. But nothing had compared to the unspeakable joy to see his lover awakened from death.

There had never been a word of affliction on Talbot's lips. For years he had withstood Russell's wish to turn him. Russell remembered a lenghty discussion about it while they were riding through a landscape that much resembled the one in the painting. The sophisticated being that he was, he had expatiated upon the vicissitudes of mortality, when Talbot suddenly declared: „If you truly love me, you should love me old and fat. And if you don't, go to hell. I'll find someone who does."

Russell raised an eyebrow at the sheer arrogance his youth and beauty bestowed on him. "Dare you!", he said. Talbot relished the expression on his face. "Oh, I dare, be sure."

Talbot looked at him out of the corner of his eye and chuckled quietly when he heard his little snarl. Russell's thin lips were curled in annoyance. They remained silent for a few moments. It was a moonlit night that gave little shelter to the creatures of the dark. Both men exchanged a meaningful glance. The pale light shimmered in Russell's emerald-green eyes. To Talbot they seemed more alive than those of most men he had met. The young man smiled fondly at him and Russell smiled back. They had a wordless understanding that they were meant to be together, regardless of the difficulties they had to face. Yes, and they had lasted, and would continue to last, if death had not parted them. True death, this time.

In their fifth year together Talbot was lethally wounded during a battle. The wooden bolt of a crossbow cracked his chest and pierced his lungs. The bleeding couldn't be stopped and he had already lost too much blood when Russell found him. Not till then had Talbot, fainting and barely able to speak, agreed to become a vampire. Russell held him until his heart stopped. Feeling his beloved's life fade under his hands reminded the ancient vampire of the real meaning of fear. It had left a deep mark on his soul. In the moment he became his maker, he made the resolution that he would do everything in his power to shield Talbot from ever having to suffer like this again. It took Russell nearly 700 years to become heedless. His fault would be eternally unforgivable and was his alone.

It felt like Talbot had been ripped out of his body, muscles and bones torn open and his life resected from him with unskilled, careless hands. Russell was overwhelmed with sorrow. Every thought cost him strength. Within hours the power his age gave him crumbled away. It drained his will to live when he thought of the things that were lost to him forever: the perfect synchronicity between their two bodies and minds, even in their pace, his quick-witted replies that had made his heart tingle with joy, his will to fight to the last, the loyalty and affection in his eyes, a true and worthy companion, a divine lover he had been, exciting, sensual and beautiful beyond words. It had been both a revelation and relief to fall in love with him.

Centuries ago, when Talbot laid in his arms after his human life had passed, Russell kissed his cooling eyelids and swore, that if he came back to him, he would bind his own fate to his for as long as he existed. Talbot had become his husband, the keeper of all of his secrets, the only one who knew his real name and dared to call him by it. Russell felt his love for him undying and craving as ever inside of him. His commitment to him wouldn't end. Talbot had often scolded him for his insatiable, passionate ways, but by the same token loved him for them. Russell never let go of what he deemed precious and cared for it in the most generous manner one could think of. His devotion was genuine and heartfelt. Talbot had been a truly privileged man and he knew it. Russell still heard his lenient sigh: „You are an old romantic, darling. Very old, actually." Russell stared at the crystal jar in the crook of his arm, trying to get a feeling from the dreadful sight that would help him keep his thirst for revenge alive. But he only remembered how, in their most intimate moments, the younger man used to lay his head there, and how wrapping his arms around his body felt like he was embracing the world.

Now that he had to suffer his death, the world should meet the same fate. He was bursting with vivacity since his other half was gone. With his deadly impulses unleashed, nothing could stop him. He wasn't bound to anyone. There was no one who needed to be thought of anymore. The world was a hell of a playground for his anger right now and it felt fantastic to make it quiver at his name. But doubt was nagging that he didn't see his momentary effervescent desires for what they really were. Was he tumbling towards his own end? The blow of the deep narcississtic mortification blurred his judgment. His mind was like the chipped dessert glass he had mentioned to Talbot in one of their petty domestic quarrels. It had finally shattered into pieces unconnected to each other. Talbot's hands weren't there to mend them. He needed his advice. He had always told him the truth, however inconvenient. No one else was to be trusted.

Russell heard his steps from somewhere behind his back. Northman made his way towards him with calm determination_._ A tall man, impressing figure. A blandisher, a player like himself. Russell would ask him why he had taken his happiness from him. Why he had brutally murdered his beloved and child who had deserved nothing but affection. He knew it was because of him and nevertheless feared the answer. His grief centered not around himself. It was focused on Talbot who had innocently lost his life. His cry of agony still lingered in Russell's soul. He heard it day and night and it made him restless. He blamed himself for leaving Talbot all on his own too much, for making him wait for his return and being late, and most of all, for exposing him to the danger that had cost his life. It felt like the cruelest betrayal on the man, who once had given up all the comforts a life of nobility had rendered him to become his consort, who had even abandoned his humanity, all for him and only for him. They had found true love and made it last for nearly seven centuries. Why did he have to go on now, when Talbot didn't? The thought of it weakened the ancient vampire more than any silver could. Everytime he was reminded of it, pain shot straight to his core.

He hoped he would still have the guts to kill Northman. Honestly, he was afraid. Not so much of the Viking, who himself was only pretending to have nerves of steel, but of his own indifference towards his death. It would not make him feel anything, the least of all satisfy him. It was meaningless. His worst anxieties had become reality, and that had killed any worthy emotion in him. He felt invulnerable because he didn't feel his heart anymore. Not in the way he did before. The mere impulses that now governed him didn't even come close to the depth of sentiment he had experienced for so long. They came close to nothing. The bliss of a smile, a soothing word, a gentle touch - much more rewarding than anything he was confronting now. Since he was inevitably cut off from it, Russell feared that nothing would ever make him happy again. After a life of 3000 years his deepest desires were regressing to such simple wishes, but, as a matter of fact, the thing most unaccessable to him in the moment was happiness.


End file.
